


Waif

by FaramirsBlessing



Series: Shishou and His Waif [1]
Category: Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Hiko is struggling to be a dad, Kenshin is salty, Kenshin is smol, So smol, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8445790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaramirsBlessing/pseuds/FaramirsBlessing
Summary: Hiko tries to figure Kenshin out. One shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. . . . Hello! I'm new to this fandom, along with my best friend, and we both love it with a passion - anime, manga, live actions. We'll stay up till 4 in the morning talking about head canons and theories and I love writing fan fiction and drawing fan art. I decided to start a little series of one shots about Hiko and little Kenshin, which is a dynamic that fascinates me and that I love to see explored. I hope you enjoy this series! 11/5: Edited Kenshin's speech pattern!

A waif. 

That’s the word he’d been searching for. Waif. 

Ever since he had picked up the boy from the site of the massacre, small and dirty with bloody hands from digging a multitude of graves, Hiko had been trying to figure out how to best describe him. 

And he had finally figured it out.

The boy was small and quiet but fiercely determined. He had followed Hiko silently for hours, somehow managing to keep up with the swordsman’s long strides and not even complaining once. When Hiko would throw covert glances over his shoulder he could see the boy was exhausted, his eyes shining, but if he lagged behind, he’d always rush to catch back up. Much to Hiko’s discomfiture, he found himself slowing slightly to meet the boy’s pace. And he didn't speed back up.

When they finally arrived back at the hut, the boy was breathless. Hiko grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside, asking if he had been injured or hurt in any way. The boy just shook his head and said nothing. 

Hiko, exasperated, grabbed an old shirt of his and shoved it in the boy’s arms, telling him to go wash in the river, leave his filthy clothes there to be washed, and change into the shirt. He’d left without a word and Hiko watched him slip into the darkness, quiet as a ghost. 

Now, Hiko had a bowl of miso soup sitting over the fire, some leftover fish and vegetables thrown into the broth for good measure - the boy needed to get some meat on those bones of his. He was frowning over the soup, stirring the ingredients in, when he felt a scared, flickering little ki behind him. He turned to find the boy standing in the doorway, arms hugged tight across his abdomen. 

Waif. 

The boy was swimming in Hiko’s dark blue shirt, the hem coming down to his small, bruised toes. Hiko took this as an opportunity to examine the boy, his face lit from the soft light of the fire inside. 

He was small, that much was obvious, and he hardly came up to Hiko’s waist; much to Hiko’s annoyance, he doubted he’d get much taller. As he studied the boy more closely, it became painfully obvious why the child had been the only boy among female slaves - he was beautiful. And probably a foreigner. Thick red hair and big violet eyes distinguished him from a true Japanese, although his eyes were the familiar and common soft almond shape. With a twist of the stomach Hiko knew that this delicate boy would have suited certain. . . clientele. . . in a teahouse very well. He fought down the urge to be sick. 

Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Selling children into slavery - this country was in shambles. And such a little one too - he couldn't be more than seven. The boy was nothing but skin and bones, and Hiko feared that he’d keel over if the wind was too strong. Like the frailest blade of grass.  
Waif.

He blinked when the boy spoke.

“S-Sir,” he stammered, and his young voice was soft and melodic, “I'm done with the washing.” 

Sir? What the hell? No one called him sir. 

The boy recoiled from Hiko’s frown and fell into a crouch, hiding his wide violet eyes behind his dark red hair. 

“S-Sorry, sir,” he said. “I - I'm sorry.” 

Hiko snorted in annoyance. Of course he had picked a slave child for an apprentice. What the hell had he been thinking? Kami, he was mad! 

But when the boy dared to peek out from under his hair, Hiko saw the spark again. Defiance. Determination. Strength. 

He had chosen wisely. 

“Come here, boy,” he said, turning to the fire. “There’s food.” 

The boy got up and headed into the hut. Hiko stifled a snort when he heard the boy stumble behind him, tripping over the hem of the too long shirt. When he came to sit next to Hiko, he was amused to see that his cheeks were flushed red with embarrassment. He poured some soup into a small bowl, making sure it was liberally full of fish and vegetables, and handed it to the boy. 

“Here,” he said, as he poured soup into his own bowl. He was slightly peeved that he didn't get much of the fish but he knew that the kid needed it more than him - he couldn't train a sack of bones. 

He spared a look at the boy as he brought a piece of fish to his lips. The bowl was resting on the floor in front of him, and his arms were still curled around his stomach. Hiko frowned. 

“What’s wrong, boy? Are you not hungry?” The boy said nothing. “Kid, it’s not polite to answer my questions with silence. Baka.” The boy winced and Hiko, who was by no means a patient man, grabbed the chopsticks and shoved them into the boy’s hands. The boy yelped in surprise and pain as the chopsticks rubbed against the blood blisters on his hands, but he curled his fingers obediently over the utensils anyway. Hiko nodded, satisfied. “I don't care if you're not hungry - I want you to eat all the fish in that soup,” he said. “If that’s all, that’s fine, but I’ll be annoyed if I wasted good fish on you. So go ahead and eat.” 

The boy nodded and began to eat. It was slow going at first, but soon the boy began to speed up, stuffing all the pieces of fish in his mouth as quickly as possible. Hiko chuckled - at least he had some kind of appetite. 

The boy froze at the sound of Hiko’s laugh, turning to him with full cheeks and too wide eyes. 

“What?” Hiko said, raising an eyebrow. “You look ridiculous when you eat like that. How can I not laugh at you? Baka.” 

The boy swallowed his food and glared at Hiko. 

“I don't like being called baka,” he said, and his usually timid eyes were lit with annoyance and anger. Hiko threw the boy a surprised look. 

“Then what do you want to be called, kid?” 

“Kenshin.” He pointed at his chest. “That’s the name you gave me. Kenshin. I want to be called by it.” 

Hiko’s lips curled into a smirk. 

Not boy. 

Not kid. 

Not baka. 

Kenshin. 

“Kenshin, huh?” he said, lifting another piece of fish to his lips. “You wanna be called Kenshin?” 

Kenshin nodded, but he quailed a moment later. His violet eyes filled with fear. 

“I-If that’s all right.” 

Hiko bit back a cry of annoyance. Ugh. The kid had been showing spirit only a second ago - and he wanted it to stay. But Hiko knew it would take a little time. Slaves often had their spirits beaten out of them. 

“Of course it’s all right, Kenshin.” Hiko turned away when Kenshin looked up at him with hopeful violet eyes. He couldn't afford to get soft now. “Baka.” 

Kenshin made a little noise. 

“S-Sir -!” 

“I don’t like being called sir, Kenshin,” Hiko said, swallowing another piece of fish. “My name is Hiko.” 

“Hiko-san?” 

“No,” Hiko said, rolling his eyes. He put down his bowl and sat to face Kenshin. The boy quailed a bit at how big he was. “I told you that I would teach you swordsmanship. That makes me your teacher.” 

“Sensei?” 

“No!” 

Kenshin recoiled, scooting back, his hands curled over his stomach. Hiko noticed he was trembling. Kami. . . . 

He ran his hand over his face. 

“No, Kenshin,” he said, “you will call me shishou.” 

“S-Shishou?” 

“Yes. Now come back here and finish your food.” Kenshin didn't move. “I won’t hurt you, Kenshin,” Hiko said, softening his voice. “So come now.” 

Kenshin shook his head wildly, his thick red ponytail swishing across his shoulders. 

“No, thank you, Shishou,” he said. “I-I don't want to.” 

Hiko sighed. 

“What do you want, then?” 

Kenshin looked up, wide-eyed. 

“C-Can I p-play?” 

Hiko frowned. 

“Play? With what?” 

Kenshin pulled a little top from the inside of his shirt, holding it out. Hiko frowned at the wooden toy before nodding. 

“Very well,” he said, waving his hand. “You can play.” 

“T-Thank you, Shishou.” 

And Kenshin ran to a corner of the hut, making his skeletal form as small as possible so as not to draw attention to himself. He began to spin the top, and he was so absorbed by it that he didn't notice Hiko get up and reseat himself with a bottle of sake. 

Hiko brought the bottle to his lips. 

Kenshin was too skinny. Too small. Too afraid. 

Waif.


End file.
